The Parisian Codex

2 - A Dame in Distress

It was 6 p.m. and I had just woken up.

The cat had knocked over several piles of papers, shredded the previous week's newspaper, and pissed on my desk. He was now sitting in the hollow of my armchair, demanding food with indignant meows.

I sacrificed a tea towel to mop up my desk pad and chased the cat out of my chair. I had a headache, a side effect of the anticoagulants added to the blood bags. My blotter was ruined. The glass I'd left behind yesterday had rolled to the floor. I stooped to pick it up and found it surprisingly clean. Kitten must have been there, too.

I reached for the drawer containing my food pantry, but a noise caught my attention. High heels on the stairs leading to my office. There was a knock on the door; three light, precise knocks.

No time to feed the cat or have a drink to clear my head. Oh well. I opened the door.

In the sinister staircase leading down to my office, a bare light bulb hung on the wall. It projected a luminous aura around the visitor but left her features in shadow.

"Monsieur Dupré?" whispered the woman. "Germain Dupré?"

I'd neglected to turn on the light in the office, so she couldn't have seen much. I corrected my omission, and the neon woke up clicking.

Judging by my visitor's expression, I didn't look the part. Tall but skinny as a rail, with my brown hair standing at attention and my eternal three-day beard, I looked more like a rock singer than a private detective.

I confirmed my identity and invited the woman in. She ignored the hand I held out to her—hers was clutching her bag—and sat on the edge of her chair as if afraid of soiling her pretty pencil skirt. She cast frightened glances around her, her handbag in her lap like a magic shield. I'd probably have to rethink the decor if it had that effect on customers.

I took a seat at my desk, and the cat settled between two stacks of books to monitor the rest of the conversation.

"My name is Nadine Leroy," breathed the woman. "I don't have an appointment, but..."

The neon cast its harsh light on Madame Leroy, her pale face, reddened eyes, and impeccable brown chignon revealing the fine skin of her neck.

She opened her mouth as if to speak, seemed to change her mind, and let out a desperate sob.

I gave her time to come to her senses. My mouth was pasty, and I had a fierce desire to moisten my throat. But not in front of the customers.

Nadine Leroy gradually regained control of her nerves and let out a long sigh.

"You must find my husband."

With a trembling hand, she held out a photograph. It was an official-looking portrait, showing a thin, blond man smiling tightly.

"When did he disappear?"

"I... This afternoon."

"Maybe it's a bit early to hire a private eye," I said.

I had no desire to accept money from this woman to find her husband in someone else's bed. That kind of business was nothing but trouble.

Nadine Leroy burst into tears.

"You don't understand!" she said between hiccups.

I glanced enviously at my desk drawer. No one should have to face a crying woman on an empty stomach. The cat, on the other hand, didn't seem much bothered. He licked his paw, put it to his ear, and yawned.

"I need to find my husband," continued the woman after a few moments.

"What if you find him in someone else's arms?" I said.